


Red Balloon

by SydneyCarton



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, BAMF Bill, BAMFs, Balloons, Bill deserves better, Bill is a great friend, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Clowns, Dancing, Demon Deals, Demons, Eldritch, Evil, Fear, Getting to Know Each Other, Good versus Evil, Heavy Angst, Horror, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Isolation, Love/Hate, M/M, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Morality, Pennywise is a dick, Pennywise the dancing clown, Phobias, Scary Clowns, Self-Sacrifice, Sewers, Shapeshifting, Stockholm Syndrome, Stuttering, Supernatural Elements, Violence, maine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2018-12-30 18:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyCarton/pseuds/SydneyCarton
Summary: ‘It’s all his fault.He needs to make it right.“Leave,” Bill gasps, dragging in a breath around the clown’s iron grip. “I’m the one who dragged you all into this. I was—I’m s-s-s-sorry.”“S-s-s-sorry,” IT mocks his stutter, cackling. His friends falter, but stay frozen in place. They stare at him, disbelieving.’***Billy sacrifices himself to IT to save his friends.





	1. Chapter 1

It was as cold as ice.

Although above ground the hot summer sun baked the pavement until it could boil eggs, the sewers were devoid of all warmth. The small streaks of light that did manage to fight their way through the rusted iron grates of the manhole all the way on the high ceiling were pale and meager. They only illuminated the bare minimum, casting haunting shadows on the damp cement walls. They were so far below the earth that the warmth couldn’t reach them. Bill had a horribly sickening notion that they may never feel the warmth of the sun ever again.

Guilt welled up in Bill’s gut, suffocating him from the inside. It was his fault. All of it was _his_ fault. If he hadn’t been so obsessed with hunting down the damn clown. Somehow, he had convinced himself that together, they would be able to kill it. Stupid. The whole plan was so _stupid_. Now everyone's lives were in danger. Over the last few weeks he had made more friends than he had ever had in his whole life. He loved them all, and now they were going to die because of him.

The air was frosty, and the cold clung to his trousers and shirt where he had fallen into the sewer’s grey water. However, the sewage water felt like a tropical beach compared to the white-gloved hands which gripped his throat and ribcage. _IT_ has him. He can’t move. One small twist of those huge hands and his neck would snap like a chicken bone. He tries to regulate his breathing, he tries to think. He automatically lifts both hands to claw at IT’ s, but the clown’s grip doesn’t budge. He hears them, his friends, shrieking in the background.

He’s going to die

He’s going to die

He’s going to—

“No, don’t!” Beverly shouts. His eyes lock onto her. She’s shaking, a metal pole in her hands. She holds it like a baseball bat, ready to swing. Her eyes are wide and her fiery red hair is askew. The others stand around her, similar makeshift weapons from the tower of abandoned things in the center of the room in their hands. “Let him go!” She grates out, reworking her grip on the metal pole. Bill squeezes his eyes shut when the hands on his neck and ribs tighten.

“No,” IT says, and Bill presses his lips together and tries to pull the hand off his neck when he feel the deep rumble of IT’ s voice from the chest he’s propped up against. He feels the movement of fabric against the back of his neck and knows that the clown is shaking its head. “I’ll take him. I’ll take all of you.” IT shakes from behind him, like it can’t stop moving. Bill wished he wasn’t so helpless. He needs to do something. Anything, to save his friends. Beverly deserves so much more, and so does Stanley, and Ben, and Mike, and Eddie, and even Richie. It’s his fault that they’re down here. The clown’s fingers tighten even more on his neck and he gasps, lifting his chin. He can’t breathe . “And I’ll feast on your flesh as I feed on your fear,” IT drags out the words ‘feast’ and ‘flesh’, shaking with anticipation. Bill gags when a stream of cold saliva drips into his hair and runs down the bridge of his nose. He shifts and tries to drag in a breath when IT releases its grip on his ribs. His eyes dart to the side in time to see the clown shaking a white-gloved finger at his friends. “Or,” IT’ s voice cracks and it breathes noisily, wheezing, “you’ll just leave us be.” Bill sucks in a breath when IT’ s hand rises from his throat to his jaw. He winces when the clown twists his face uncomfortably to the side. “I will take him. Only him. And then I will have my long rest.” Bill sucks in as much air as possible while he still can, but stops as soon as the clown’s long fingers squeeze his jaw and lower back to his throat. “And you will all live to grow and thrive and lead haaaaappy lives, until old age takes you back to the weeds,” IT’ s voice cracks menacingly and every other words is punctuated by deep wheezing breaths and low cackles. Its voice lowers to a growl, like a wild beast.

This is his chance.

It’s all his fault.

He needs to make it right.

“Leave,” Bill gasps, dragging in a breath around the clown’s iron grip. “I’m the one who dragged you all into this. I was—I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

“S-s-s-sorry,” IT mocks his stutter, cackling. His friends falter, but stay frozen in place. They stare at him, disbelieving.

They need to go, to get out of the sewers and go somewhere safe.

“Go!” He shouts, his voice reverberating off of the cement walls.

“Guys, we _can’t_ ,” Beverly’s voice waivers.

“I-i-it’s-s-s alright,” Bill tries to catch her eye, to try and show her that _it is okay_ , but she’s looking down at the ground. He just wants them all to be safe. It’s okay. He’s okay. They need to live. It’s all his fault.

“We can’t just leave you in this crack house with that fucking clown, Bill!” Richie shouts, ignoring Eddie’s silent protests and stepping forward. Bill’s blood freezes in his veins when he feels the vibrations of IT’ s growls against his back.  

“Richie please!” Bill shouts back. “Y-y-you all, you all need to leave! Please quick, before—” he gulps against IT’ s grip on his throat.

“Let go of him, Ronald McDonald!” Richie shouts. IT stands from it’s previously crouched position, throwing Bill to the side. He rolls, coming to a stop in a cold puddle of grey water. It’s warm in comparison to IT’ s hands. Bill clambers to his feet, slipping once. The clown is striding towards Richie, who holds a wooden baseball bat with both hands.

“Stop!” Bill runs as fast as he can to throw himself in between IT and his friends. He throws his arms out, as if that could actually do anything to stop a demon like IT . He turns to the ‘Losers’ Club’. “Y-y-y-you can’t d-die. You have to save yourselves. I-it’s alright.” He turns to face the clown, who towers over him by at least a foot. It’s yellow eyes seem to pierce his very soul. “I’ll. I’ll stay. To save them.” _IT’_ s eyes widen, the one on the right drifting slightly off to the side. A wide grin slowly creeps it’s way across it’s demonic face. Bill gulps. “Y-you have to _swear_. You won’t hurt them. Or anyone else.”

“You have my word, Billy,” the clown says, it’s slimy voice sending chills down Bill’s spine. Bill turns back to his friends. His lip quivers and he nods at them before his resolve breaks. He steps towards them slowly, trying to convey to IT that he wasn’t about to try anything. He reaches Beverly first, and embraces her in a hug. Tears burn behind his eyes, threatening to spill over as the rest of The Losers’ Club joins them.

“I love you guys. Please be safe, f-for m-m-me.”

He watches as they slowly file out of the room through one of the tunnel passageways. Frigid, damp despair clings to his very bones as Beverly, the last to leave, glances at him one last time before disappearing into the tunnel.

He’s alone.

All alone.

Trapped.

A selfish part of him wants to scream for help. He knows, deep down, that they’ll come running to his rescue. But he can’t do that to them. They deserve to live long happy lives. He can’t put them in any more danger than he already has.

He doesn’t want to turn around. _IT_ hasn’t made a sound, but he knows it’s there, standing right behind him. He feels like he’s floating outside of his body, watching himself _make_ himself turn around. He’ll do this. He’ll do this for his friends. For Bev, Eddie, Stan, Richie, Ben, and Mike. For all the other kids who suffered because of this creature. For Georgie.

He hates it

He hates it

HE HATES IT

His hands curl into tight fists and he turns, breathing heavily. _IT_ is there, just as he knew it would be. Bill cranes his neck to meet its eyes head-on. He refuses to be afraid of a demon who preys on weak, innocent children. IT is taller than it was a second ago, and Bill tilts his head back further to keep eye contact. It’s at least three feet taller than him now. Dark shadows streak their way down it’s painted face, making it look even more sinister.

“I am _not_ afraid of you.” Bill rasps, pressing his lips together and narrowing his eyes. He’s not going out as a coward. IT’ s mouth drops open to reveal a row of sharp, serrated, shark-like teeth.

“We’ll see, Billy-boy.” IT’ s cackles fill the room.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artwork by the magnificent Wirespulled!! Check out their Tumblr  
> \--> https://wirespulled.tumblr.com/

Bill can’t move.

His pounding heart shakes his entire body like an off beat metronome, one hundred sixty beats per minute. Suddenly he’s back in Music Theory on the last day of school, before everything went bad. Richie wanted to be in the band, but his parents wouldn’t drive him back and forth from weekend practice, so he was stuck in Theory with Bill, who couldn’t read sheet music for his life. They were sitting next to each other, counting down the minutes until school stopped and summer began. Bill wasn’t sure whether this was IT’s doing or his own mind, but it felt so real. He can remember the drone of the teacher, the clicking of pens, the shrill bell marking the end of the day, and the screech of chairs being pushed backwards against the tile floor. Maybe it was just wishful thinking; he wishes he could go back to a time before all of this. So he could save his friends the horror and anguish, and maybe even himself.

He’s drawn back to reality by the _drip drip drip_ of condensation trickling down the dirty cement walls. The currently eight-foot tall clown towers bow-legged above him, its absurd height dwarfing him by comparison. He listens for any tell-tale signs of movement, lest his eyes be deceive by IT’s illusions or the darkness. He can feel the erratic beat of his heart in his fingertips, a strong pressure that begins in his chest and spreads outwards.

_ThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThumpThump_

They stand across from each other, about three feet apart. The clown’s eyes are two embers in the darkness, burning yellow lights set in its macabre red and white painted face.

There is no warning. It would not have mattered how intently Bill listened or how closely he kept his eyes trained on the creature in front of him. There was no rustle of fabric, nor jangle of bells, not even a slight deviation in breath before one of the clown’s abnormally long arms shoots forward at breakneck speed. Its fingers wrap around Bill’s throat, lifting him up until he’s forced to balance on his toes. Its thumb presses down on his jugular until his breaths turn small and strained. Bill’s hands automatically claw at IT’s, his short fingernails digging into the clown’s gloved wrists and fingers, but nothing he does seems to faze it. No matter how hard he scratches and tears, he’s no match for IT’s inhuman strength.

IT’s face splits into a grotesque grin at the sight of Bill’s struggle and gagging breaths, its bottom lip dropping down to accentuate long, jagged teeth. IT reels Bill in like a fish, painstakingly slow and deliberate. He feels the toes of his shoes dragging through the dirt, catching on the small rocks and miscellaneous junk that littered the floor of the lair. IT pulls him closer and closer by the neck until they’re nose to nose. Bill grips the massive hand wrapped around his throat with both of his hands—which are tiny in comparison—his arms aching from the strain of attempting to lift himself up and keep air flowing to his lungs.

He’s determined to keep glaring into the clown’s eyes. To show that he’s not afraid. Even if he is going to die, he wants it to know that in the end, he won.

He isn’t afraid.

He’s _furious_.

The clown’s eyes are bright yellow like flashing road signs on the side of a highway on a dark, thundering night. They’re rimmed thinly in crimson, standing out harshly against the whites of its eyes. Bill scowls, gritting his teeth. He glares, and looks, and then there’s suddenly something else. A sickly feeling unfurls in his stomach and it isn’t because of the lack of oxygen reaching his lungs. There’s something behind IT’s eyes, just beneath the surface—something terrible. Something indescribably chaotic and destructive writhes just behind the viscerality of those haunting yellow eyes. It’s endless, and swallows him whole.

He’s falling backwards into an endless abyss.

His brain is in someone’s fist, and they’re _squeezing_.

Acidic bile climbs up his throat despite the fist around it, but dissipates as soon as Bill drops his gaze to the floor. He grieves the missed opportunity to throw up in the clown’s face.

Once his brain no longer feels like it got run over by a steamroller, he lifts his chin up and pulls down on the hand which grips his throat, focusing his gaze on the clown’s red painted nose, and eventually back on its eyes.

He can’t look at those teeth.

The terrible thing hiding just behind its eyes is gone, for the time being. The one on the right has drifted off to the side. Bill isn’t sure whether or not IT does this on purpose, but it sets his teeth on edge. He looks into the left one. IT shakes him like a dog does a toy, the bells on the frills of its costume jingling. Bill’s head snaps back, a tendon in his neck catching and clicking with a painful jolt.

“I’m n-not afraid of-of-f you.” Bill reiterates, spitting out the words with as much contempt, hatred, and anger as he can dredge up from his gut around the usual hesitation of his tongue and lips.

“Everyone’s afraid of something,” the clown sneers, its garbled words stringing together in a nearly incomprehensible slew of high and low pitches. “Something that sits in the roots of their soul. Its how I tear them up,” IT shakes the boy again. He feels like his head will fall off if it shakes him once more. “Tear them out. Salt the meat.” IT cackles, its grin growing by the second. Bill lets out a yell, swinging his feet forward. He catches the clown’s leg, hard, right above the left knee. Pain shoots up Bill’s foot from the impact and he grimaces, pulling back. A horrendous laugh that begins a shrill giggle and ends as a low, rumble of a chuckle tumbles out of IT’s mouth, which then begins to open and open and the _teeth_ —

“You’re not real!” Bill leverages himself forward and shrieks as loudly as he can. IT’s mouth immediately snaps shut an inch away from Bill’s face, the sound of cracking teeth mixing with the reverberations of his scream. The clown stares down at him from underneath its brow, red-painted lips slightly parted and chilling yellow eyes hooded.

Bill gasps for breath as the hand around his neck begins to tighten.

IT’s nose scrunches up and it dips its chin, the edges of its mouth dropping downwards.

“Billy,” IT hisses lowly in an unusually deep, gravelly voice, enunciating each word slowly and articulately. “I’m more real than your friends, who left you here to rot with me.”

Bill has no time to prepare before he’s flying backwards through the air. The back of his head connects with the cement wall with a sickening _crack_ , and he feels his brain rattle in his skull like a dried up walnut christmas tree ornament. He lifts his hand up to feel the back of his head and it comes back slicked with fresh blood. He forces himself to look back up, his eyelids unusually heavy and his vision focusing and unfocusing rapidly.

The clown stands where it was before, its long arms by its side and the usual manic grin absent from its now dead-serious face. The ringing in his ears is overpowering, like the wails of an ambulance. IT takes a large forward, the small bells on its costume jingling menacingly. Despite the nausea that rolls in his stomach every time he moves, Bill shuffles back as far as he can using only his hands for leverage. IT takes another step forward. Bill’s stomach drops when he feels the cement wall of the sewer against his back. He’s reached the edge of the room. IT has him cornered.

He struggles to keep his eyes open, but the ringing in his ears is so loud, and he can feel the hot, sticky blood in his hair, and black dots cloud the edges of his vision.

_RichieMikeRichieStanRichieMikeEddieBevMikeEddieStanBevBenStanMikeGeorgie_

_Georgie_

_Georgie_

_Georgie_

The black dots eventually swarm Bill’s vision completely, and his body tips to the side, falling to a heap on the cold floor. The last thing he sees is IT crouched in front of him, red-painted lips pressed into a hard line and disconcerting yellow eyes glaring down at him.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!!  
> I'm so sorry for the late update! I was sick, and then the work wouldn't stop piling up, and then I got sick again :( but under no circumstances am I giving up on this story! Thanks for stickin' around, and I hope you like this chapter! <33  
> Thank you so much for reading xxx

Bill wakes up shivering. 

It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed since the consciousness was shaken out of him by the concrete wall he now lies sprawled next to. A dim, green-hued light emanates from the hole in the center of the high ceiling, illuminating the sewer just as it did when the Losers’ Club first entered. The large circular space is gloomy and cloaked in elongated shadows which do nothing to reveal to Bill what time of day it is. 

He could have been out for only a few seconds. 

Or minutes. 

Or hours. 

He swallows, his throat raw and dry. 

How long?

Violent shivers rack Bill’s body as he's pulled enough out of his limbo to notice the temperature of his waterlogged clothes, and how they enclose him in an icy second skin. The cold seeps into his very bones, turning his fingers numb and clumsy. He inhales sharply, his teeth chattering. The gritty cement floor bites into his temple, the icy water plastering tiny pieces of gravel to the side of his face. The collar of his blue-sleeved raglan shirt clings uncomfortably to his neck, saturated with frigid greywater. The rivets and belt loops on his jeans bite painfully into his hip, on which he’s been lying for God-knows how long. 

Sound returns only a dull buzz at first to accompany the unwelcoming sight of the sewer, advancing and retreating like waves lapping against the shore of a beach. After a few moments it settles, and Bill can hear the familiar  _ drip drip drip _ of the musky condensation descending the cement walls, and the spattering flow of greywater down into the open mouth of the well. 

But that’s not it. 

If he listens closely enough, if he furrows his brow, unfocused his eyes and truly listens, he can hear something else underneath. It’s a song, he thinks, but there’s something inexplicably wrong about it. It’s off-key and  _ angry _ . The dissonant minor chords hum, just audible over the gurgle of water. A crude imitation of something meant to be jovial. 

He lifts his head up about an inch, the tendons in his neck straining from the odd angle. The back of his head pangs and he has to grit his teeth to keep himself from crying out. Once the ache recedes, he turns in the direction of the music until his gaze focuses on the very bottom of the tower. Footed within the mountain of abandoned possessions and long-forgotten objects, half buried, rests what appears to be a carriage. It’s large, about the size of the front of one of Derry’s town shops. From what he can tell it’s made of wood and metal, rotted and rusted near the edges but otherwise in fine condition. Most of the front constitutes of two wide doors, which are adorned with intricate, once-colorful patterns now dulled by age overlain by twisted metal bars. It’s so out of place—too large to have been dragged through the narrow tunnels and passageways of the sewer, and yet the structure itself is so germane. Bill could not think of a more fitting foundation for the evidence of thousands of stolen lives.

The doors are open a crack, just enough for a sliver of disconcerting fiery orange light to peek through. Bill adjusts his position, resting his weight on his elbow, wincing as the sudden movement causes his head to spin. The light points in his direction, as if beckoning him forward.

The diabolical calliope rings out from within the circus carriage. The discordant, somewhat hostile chords are loud but distant. Farther away than the distance between him and the carriage would suggest.

He bites his lip and tries to quell his shivers, maintaining low and shallow breaths. He keeps his eyes locked on the cracked-open doors of the carriage. He can’t risk taking his eyes off it, because where else in the sewer would IT be?

He squints and grimaces, refusing to break his stare, the pounding between his eyes growing more incessant with every passing second. He can feel the sludge and muck plastered to the side of his face, the cold burning his skin. The longer he stays still, the more numb his limbs grow, the more the cut on the back of his head stings, the more his skull aches. If he gets up, his headache might lessen enough so that he could at least  _ think _ straight.

An irrational part of him hesitates to move any further even though he  _ knows _ that if IT’s watching him, he’s already moved enough to give away the fact that he’s awake. His eyes dart around the cavernous, circular cistern that resembles a dilapidated cooling tower. Besides the occasional rat scuttling along the edges of the room and the intermittent slow-moving shadows cast from the floating children which glide across the walls, there’s no sign of movement.

If IT’s not here, he could use the time he has alone to his advantage. Bill presses his lips together and forces himself to stand up, an involuntary exhale leaving his numb nose as the blood in his legs jumps to life and pins-and-needles course up and down his flesh.

The clown doesn’t strike him as being a creature of integrity. There’s no way he can be certain that it will honor their deal. Bill’s stomach turns as he imagines IT picking off his friends one by one while he sits alone in the damp sewer, unable to do anything. He can’t let it do any more harm to the kids of Derry. 

The only way he can be completely certain is if he takes matters into his own hands and gets rid of it himself. He’s at a disadvantage, clearly, but if he plays his cards right… 

Ignoring the pins-and-needles as best he can, Bill stumbles towards the tower. Greywater sloshes in his ruined sneakers with every step he takes, numbing his toes. He gives the carriage a wide berth, not daring to step into the orange light in apprehension of alerting IT of his consciousness. He approaches the tower, taking a second to look up in awe at how tall the mountain really is. He has to tilt his head back in order to see the top, where the children are still suspended in the ai, their small bodies broken and twisted into horrible and grotesque angles, some parts floating completely unattached. 

Bill looks away. 

He needs to focus. 

There are mountains of clothes, some worn from age, speckled with holes and mold, while others look like they came right off the shelf. Bill inhales sharply when he sees a brand new pair of socks that look as though they would fit a child younger than Georgie. 

Georgie. 

Bill looked up at the pile of clothes and toys once again. The frigid hand of dread squeezes his heart when he thinks of his innocent baby brother. What would he do if he found Georgie’s clothes here? He shakes his head and continues circling the bottom of the tower. He can’t afford to think like that. 

He makes it around the entire base of the tower without seeing anything he could use as a potential weapon. He looks for anything that could be useful; where was the metal rod Beverley had, or the rusted fence spikes he had slipped through the loops in his backpack before he descended into the sewer? The low whistles and hums of circus music taunt him from afar. He bites his lip in frustration and is about to double check the perimeter when his eyes lock onto a metal pole sticking out of a pile of denim jeans and polo shirts. It looks like it could be a baseball bat, which would be perfect, but any sort of sturdy metal object would be useful to Bill right about now. 

It’s right next to the carriage. 

Bill takes a step forward, and then another and another, skirting around the bright orange glow emanating from the cracked-open doors of the circus carriage. The closer he gets, the louder the infuriating music becomes. He’s almost there when he catches a whiff of salt and butter in the air, and the faint noise of laughter and  _ clack clack _ of a roller-coaster ride. He stops, listening intently, but the phantom aromas and noises disappear just as quickly as they arrived. 

The music continues to grow louder and more chaotic with every step he takes. He’s now only a few feet away from the metal object, which he’s now completely certain is indeed a baseball bat. It’s a shiny silver aluminum with a handle wrapped in black rubber, perhaps a few years old judging by the wear on the top layer of the handle material and the scuff about the bottom of the aluminum. 

The bat reminds him of when him, Richie, Stan, and Eddie used to take their bikes to the Barrens and pitch old balls into the stream. He’ll be back with them all soon, and they can continue the summer like nothing ever happened. 

The loud music rings in his ears.

Bill reaches out to take the bat in one hand. 

He’ll be back with them—Richie, Eddie, Stan, Mike, Beverley, and Ben—The Losers’ Club, and everything will go back to normal. It’ll be better than normal. 

As soon as his fingertips grace the worn rubber handle the deafening circus music comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of a chord. He freezes, one hand clasped around the handle and the other raised slightly at his side. He doesn’t dare breathe, nor does his gaze waver from the mound of clothes the bat still protrudes from. 

He’s being watched; he can feel it. 

The sewer is silent. There is no gurgle of water nor scuffle of rats. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, shaking his core, and forgets about the frigid cold that freezes his skin. Slowly, he looks over to the carriage. One of the doors is slightly more ajar than it was before, the orange light reaching the edge of his sneaker. 

In his mind’s eye, IT stands just behind him, peering over his shoulder. He can feel the cold breath fanning over the back of his neck, the cold strings of saliva dropping down onto him from above. 

Gritting his teeth, Bill swings around with the bat held tightly in both hands. 

Nothing. 

His eyes dart around the gaping room, bat in the air and chest heaving.

The carnival music starts back up like a cranking music box, more lethargic and muted than it was before. 

He turns back around, his brow furrowing when there’s nothing there either. Taking one hand off the bat he rubs the back of his neck. There’s only dried blood from the cut he got before he was knocked out. No saliva. 

He could have sworn—

A hiss of air leaves Bill’s gritted teeth as he turns around in a circle once more. Was that a trick? Another illusion? Or did he imagine that himself?

His eyes lock onto the carriage doors. 

If IT’s anywhere, it’s in there. He’s fought it off before, and he can do it again.

Clutching the aluminum bat in both hands in an iron grip, Bill steps towards the carriage. Although his fingers are still numb and clumsy from the cold, his fingers squeeze the bat until his knuckles turn white and the bones of his knuckles stand out under his taut skin. A cut on the side of his palm stings, but he tightens his grip anyway. 

He stands in front of the carriage doors, the circus music now barely audible. He wedges his soiled sneaker in between the two doors and kicks the one closest to him open. It swings to the side, creaking and groaning all the way until it knocks the outside of the carriage and comes to an unstable, shaking stop. The air drag from the opening door pulls a few leaves and clouds of dust forwards, sweeping out of the now open entrance. 

The inside of the carriage is small and barren. There’s no sign of light—nothing that could have caused the fiery orange glow that had been backlighting the doors just a second ago. Although the corners are bathed in shadows, Bill can see a buildup of decomposing leaves that look as though they’ve been there for a while at the edges. Not ready to let down his guard, Bill keeps the bat up as he steps into the center of the carriage. Ropes hang from the ceiling like vines, some dangling so low that Bill has to duck around them. 

There’s something on the wall, a painting of some kind. Bill squints into the darkness. It’s a mural. All he can make out are a few faces with exaggerated expressions and some blocky red words. 

**COME AND SEE US**

**PENN—**

The darkness cloaks the rest of the words. Eyes narrowed and mouth agape, Bill loosens his grip on the bat and takes another step forward. 

Expecting the hard wooden floor, Bill looks down in confusion when the sole of his sneaker is met with something pliant and squishy instead. He releases a gasp of dismay when he sees it’s a  _ hand _ he’s stepped on. It isn’t like the illusions, where a part of him knows it’s just a trick. This is  _ real _ . This hand belonged to someone, a real person. It’s slightly larger than his own, ending roughly around the wrist. It’s turned upwards, palm towards the sky. The white bone sticks out, a jagged shard, and the flesh around the meat of the palm is bloody and gnawed like it has been chewed by an animal. 

He jumps back, the blood in his veins racing and what little remains in his stomach churning. His mouth is dry, and breathing hurts, but he keeps sucking in breath after breath and stumbling backwards away from the detached hand that looks like it’s reaching towards him. The heel of his sneaker catches on the raised platform of the entrance and he struggles to stay on two feet, the momentum swinging him around. 

Two gigantic, protruding yellow eyes stare back at him. IT’s bent down enough so that they’re face to face. Bill’s heart stutters in his chest and he lets out a shout, using the momentum from his stumble to swing the bat in an upward arch in the direction of the clown’s head. IT’s white-gloved hand jumps up from its side at an impossible speed, catching the aluminum bat in its fist. Its painted face cracks into a mile-long grin when Bill tries to pull the bat free to no avail. 

“You thought I was in there huh, Billy?” The clown sneers, its garage of a fist constricting the bat until the metal buckles under the pressure. 

“F-ff-fuck you,” Billy growls, tugging at the bat again. IT mouth drops opens, revealing razor-sharp rugged teeth, and it lets out a roaring scream of a laugh that rattles the room. Bill pulls the bat in another direction, hoping to catch the clown by surprise, but its grip doesn’t budge. Bill looks up when IT’s giggles come to a startling halt. The clown sniffs the air, its red-painted lips parted. 

He  _ needs _ the bat, that’s the only thing he’s got going for him. 

He needs the bat. 

IT inhales again, nostrils flaring. Bill cringes when a string of saliva drops from the clown’s open mouth, and then does his best to harden his stare when it turns to face him, its right eye wandering to the side. 

“What’s that, Billy?” IT grins madly. Bill’s bares his teeth in a mixture of disgust and confusion. The clown jerks the bat forward, causing Bill to stumble after it. Bill forces himself to forget his pride, releasing his grip on the bat only to be grabbed around the shoulders immediately after. The clatter of the bat hitting the ground is a distant sound as the clown’s huge, freezing hands encompass his entire back, its thumbs pressing into his shoulders until his knees threaten to buckle. Bill braces himself when the clown buries its face in the crook of his neck. He feels its cold breath in his hair and shouts when sharp, inhuman teeth graze against the back of his neck. “Here it is,” he hears IT mutter to itself, followed by a gargle-like chuckle from the back of its throat. 

Bill growls when he feels the drag of a tongue across his hairline. He’s dropped to the ground, still under the weight of the clown’s grip, like IT’s grown tired of holding him up. While the clown’s unbreakable grip on his shoulders keeps his head from actually hitting the ground, stars fly across Bill’s vision. His previously forgotten headache returns ten-fold. Black spots crowd his vision as he stares at the damp concrete ground while IT licks at the back of his neck like a starving dog. Teeth dance precariously along the back of his neck, and Bill knows it’s only a matter of time until IT loses whatever restraint it possesses and tears out his spine. 

Rage and burning anger at IT for  _ existing _ , and at himself for being powerless to stop it boils in his gut. He’s not about to just give up. He promised himself he wouldn’t. 

For his friends. 

For Georgie.

He goes limp in the clown’s grip, feigning defeat, letting his head hang forward. He waits until IT breaks away, and then he throws his head back full-force. His vision goes black for a second after he feels the crack of the clown’s face against the back of his head and the headache pounds like a herd of elephants, but as soon as IT’s grip on his shoulders loosens he tears himself away and reaches for where the aluminum bat lies abandoned on the ground. 

Now with the bat gripped tightly in both hands like before, Bill turns to face IT, who kneels in front of him. Its head is tilted to one side, and it’s smiling, blood coating its teeth. Bill screams and swings the bat as hard as he can right into the clown’s face. He feels the pressure of the bat finding purchase—he feels the vibrations against his own hands—but the moment he lowers the bat the clown is gone. 

Gone. 

Bill turns around in a circle, anger and frustration dulling the aching in his skull. 

“Come back!” He screams into the empty room, his shrill voice cracking and echoing off the walls. “Coward!” He roars, chest heaving. 

He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and it comes back wet with fresh blood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! The lateness of this chapter honestly grosses me out—sorry!!  
> On a higher note, the wonderful Wirespulled made some absolutely AMAZING fanart for this fic.  
> Check it out --> https://78.media.tumblr.com/5f4f608c4a4c59db40d880d1a2ba6f09/tumblr_p1olhnChLT1ux2d3no1_1280.png  
> They're very talented (their commissions are always fabulous) and kind. I recommend that everyone check out and follow them on Tumblr!   
> https://wirespulled.tumblr.com/

A few hours pass and Bill’s anger gives way to hunger and the cold.

He had eventually stumbled to the corner of the cavernous room, bat clutched tightly in his sweat-slicked hands. Unwilling to leave anything to chance, he stumbled around and walked backwards in order to keep an eye on the sewer, which at that time seemed deceptively empty. He dragged his feet backward until his back met the rough surface of the wall, and then let himself slide down the cold, hard cement until he reached the ground.

The carriage was dark and silent.

The clown was nowhere in sight. 

After a while he reaches back up with his free hand to gently rub at his neck, the feeling of crusted blood meeting his fingers. He shivers in disgust, remembering the way the monster’s needle-like teeth had reopened his injury. He takes up the sleeve of his T-shirt in his fist and rubs the back of his neck, more harshly this time, attempting to rid his skin of the blood and the spit and the phantom-teeth which still dance along his skin. 

He sits there in the corner, his back to the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest, the metal bat still in one hand, for what seems like an eternity. A few times his mind wanders to what will become of him, but he banishes the thoughts as soon as heat begins to build behind his eyes. He needs to focus on what’s happening now, which admittedly is not a lot. 

Bill’s mouth hangs open and he breathes in breath after breath until his chest no longer shakes and his heartbeat slows to an acceptable pace. He scans the sewers several times, trying to forget how dry his mouth is and the emptiness in his stomach. Now that the calliope music no longer echoes from the carriage, all he hears is the trickle of water. He lets his gaze linger on the greywater, falling from a rusty spout into the gaping well inlaid into the ground next to the tower. 

His gaze remains fixed on the well, the steady sound of trickling water eerily calming. The lips of the well are grey, black, and brown—heavily molded with age and saturated by the stagnant water and filth of the place. He imagines touching it, and can feel the slime beneath his cold fingertips. He stares until his gaze wanders down the edge of the well, his breath hitching in his throat when he notices the two eyes peering at him through the darkness. They are low to the ground, by the edge of the tower. 

They are large and yellow in color, bestial in nature.

They do not blink. 

Bill’s jaw locks, his throat tightening to the point of pain, his headache spreading from the pulse at the back of his skull to a hammering at his temples—but he ignores it all. 

They do not move, but his fingers tighten around the handle of the bat nevertheless. His gaze fixates on the hollow glow of them until that’s all he sees. If the eyes—IT’s eyes—move an inch, he’ll know. His legs shake with the anticipation of having to jump up, whether in fight or flight he does not know. 

A scratching noise—like long fingernails dragging through a carpet, catching and tearing—erupts from beside him. His heart leaps in his chest and he scrambles away, ready to bash the clown’s head in. 

A rat scuttles along the floor, its matted grey body hugging the filthy space where the wall meets the floor. Its fur is wiry and coarse, mud caking its small taloned-feet. Bill stares at it, his brows furrowed and his lip curled up in mild disgust. The creature looks up at him, beady black eyes blinking and whiskered nose twitching, before scampering away. When Bill looks back over to the tower the eyes are gone. In there place nothing but inky darkness shadows the bottom edge of the tower.

He breathes in heavily through his nose, allowing his head to fall back against the wall gently. That  _ Thing _ is toying with him, he’s sure of it. Although he cannot see it now, he can feel its presence. A heavy uneasiness, an itch on his shoulders, a pit at the bottom of his stomach. It’s waiting until his guard falls, waiting for something to startle him just enough to catch him unawares, or until the crushing isolation finally throws him off. 

He won’t let that happen.

There is a way out of this, a way he can survive and go back to his friends. He just needs to think. 

Think. 

Easier said than done, in his current situation.  

It’s weak—weaker than it lets on. If it was as powerful as it seemed at the beginning of the summer, when it targeted the members of the Losers’ Club separately, he would be dead by now. Bill presses his lips together, narrowing his eyes and mulling the theory over. 

Was it really as weak as he suspected, or was it simply toying with him like a cat does a mouse? He needed to be sure. 

He sees the eyes several more times over the course of what he suspects was a day. With the constant darkness, he can’t be sure. They never approach him, in fact, once he spots them they do not move until they inevitably disappear again. His annoyance builds in correlation to his thirst and hunger. His stomach feels like a bottomless pit, and his lips are dry and cracked. When the two glowing eyes appear again, he snaps. 

“You’re a fool,” he spits, his words dredged up from the bottom of his aching throat. 

The eyes remain still, so he tries again. 

“You’re weak,” he says, louder. They blink quickly but it could have been a trick of the darkness. “You’re-re a  _ pathetic _ p-piece of shi—” the air is knocked out of him as he’s pushed up against the wall, his shoulder blades grinding uncomfortably against the rough cement. He keeps his head tilted forward so as not to worsen his injury, his neck straining. The clown has him by the collar of his T-shirt, its forearm and elbow holding him in place. Its free hand holds and presses Bill’s—the one clutching the baseball bat—to the gravelly ground. The edges of its mouth are pulled downward, its pointed teeth glinting in what little light there is. Bill gulps, his dry throat protesting. Its eyes are yellow but lack the red which encircled them the last time he saw it in this form. “You won’t kill me,” Bill tests the water, wondering how far he could take this before getting his head ripped off. 

IT says nothing. 

“You can’t, because I’m not afraid of you,” he adds, glaring. 

“I could kill you,” IT speaks eventually, its voice low and guttural. 

“Then why don’t you,” Bill probes, sneering. He ignores the uncertainty rising in his stomach. The clown grins madly, wider than any smile had a right to be. 

“Because that would be too easy, little buddy. I don’t want to kill you,” IT leans in closer until Bill can see the fine cracks in its face paint. “I want to  _ devour _ you.”

**Author's Note:**

> This idea wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote it!! I don't know how many other people thought of this after seeing the 2017 IT movie (or maybe after reading the book??) but I hope you enjoy :D  
> There is more to come.


End file.
